


Swimming Lessons

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spnspringfling, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Fever, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 03, Sibling Incest, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, you gotta learn to float. It's easier if you have help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swimming Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyryk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyryk/gifts).



The rumble of the Impala keeps Sam bound to the world by a narrow thread, the smear of lights outside so bright it threatens to burn itself into his brain. Even with his eyes closed, he sees the afterimages of angels falling from the sky. Did he do that? Or was it Cas? 

"Dean," he gets out. He wishes he could see his brother's face, but his eyes feel like they're on fire. All of him does. Dean stopped him before he could finish it, but he thinks he might be dying anyway.

"It's gonna be okay," Dean says. Sam isn't sure Dean's even really talking to him. He says it like he can will it to be true—and it's Dean, so maybe he can.

* * *

Sam misses time. There's a blink of nothing, and then a rushing sensation of night driving so familiar he might be six years old, waking up in the back seat to hear the radio turned low and Dad singing softly to Creedence. He might be twenty-three, waking up in the passenger seat to the reality that Jess is dead, and wishing that he was.

Another blink, maybe longer than the first. Then Dean's voice cuts sharply into his awareness. "Hey, it's me. Open up."

Sam fights for consciousness like he's struggling to the surface of a murky, dark lake. It takes him a minute to realize Dean's talking to someone on his phone. They're parked outside the bunker. Overhead, the sky is leaden with clouds. The pain hasn't lessened; it thrums through him like rolling thunder, so bad he wants to throw up.

"Yeah, I know, a lot of shit went down tonight. But right now, I need you to—"

The voice on the other end cuts Dean off. After a minute, he lets out a harsh breath and pinches his eyebrows between thumb and forefinger. "Kevin, man, look. I get it. You're pissed, and I get it. You got a right to be, and I ain't saying you don't. A week from now, we can figure it all out. But right now, you gotta listen. I got Sam with me, and he's—" There's a break in Dean's voice, and he looks at Sam for the first time since the church. "He's not doin' so good, okay? So quit screwin' around and let us in." Sam sees by his dire expression that Kevin's answer isn't what Dean needs to hear. "You tellin' me you're willin' to let Sam _die_ to make a point?"

"Dean, it's okay," Sam tries to say.

Dean silences him with a look. "Fine. But remember, this was your choice." He snaps his phone shut and clenches his fist around it like he might crush it. "Sonofabitch." 

"It's okay," Sam says again. He wants to say more, but the look on Dean's face stops him. This isn't about shutting down Hell, or revenge for Mom and Dad, or the mission. The desperation on Dean's face isn't about any of that.

Dean's expression closes up then, and he starts the car. He doesn't look at Sam as he shifts into gear, but his hand finds Sam's knee and stays there, one pat and then a steady pressure through his jeans. "You stay quiet and let me take care of things for a while, huh?" 

Sam does what he asks because it's Dean, and because for better or worse, he made a choice. The truth is, he wants nothing more than to curl up in the front seat with his head in Dean's lap like he did when he was little. Dean can drive them away from here, away from everyone who'll pay for his failure. It never should have been him; Dean was right about that. But what was he supposed to do? He couldn't let Dean down again—not three months ago, not an hour ago, and not now.

Dean hits the gas, and Sam hunches against the door so he won't give in to his need for more of Dean's touch. He can't afford it, not if he's supposed to keep it together. 

Dean's a solid wall of purpose beside him, so Sam closes his eyes, holding on to the pieces of himself for all he's worth.

* * *

Sam is five years old, standing beside a motel pool and shivering. Dad's chafing Sam's arms with a towel, but there's no pity in his face.

"He's turning blue, Dad. Can't we try again tomorrow?" 

"Your brother needs to get over this, Dean. He's being stubborn."

"No, I'm not!" Sam protests, close to tears. "It's not my fault!" He's been trying, he has. It's not like he wants to be the only kid who can't swim. But his skinny legs and arms won't cooperate, and every time he tries to float, he ends up breathing water. His chest hurts from coughing.

"It's been over two hours," Dean says, "and he's not gettin' any better at it."

"Enough," Dad says. Dean shuts up immediately. He's barely said more than 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir' since the shtriga, and that was weeks ago. Sam hunches his shoulders, wishing Dean would stay out of it. The way Dad's been acting lately, it's only going to make things worse.

"Sam, you listen to me. There's no reason you can't do this. Winchesters don't quit, remember?"

"Yes, sir." Sam looks at the cracked concrete between his feet. 

Miserable, he starts down the steps. It's October in Arkansas, and the pool is cold despite the late afternoon sun. His dad's hand is heavy on his shoulder. It's hopeless, he knows. Dean makes it look so easy, swimming the whole length of the pool, jumping off the old diving board into the deep end like it's nothing. Swimming came easy to Dean like everything else. Dad's told him a hundred times how he practically threw Dean in the water when he was barely one years old, and he swam right away, like a fish.

Sam's up to his chest, shivering and fighting tears when Dean pushes off the edge of the pool. "Dad, let me try." 

* * *

"I can't, _I can't._ " Sam shivers so violently he bites his tongue, and the taste of blood makes him clutch at his head, terrified that he's made a wreck of everything again. "I didn't mean it," he whispers, but it's too late. Lucifer's hands are so cold. He's so _cold._ "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

"Sam, shh, it's okay," Ruby says, but he knows better than to trust her. He tries to jerk away, but she's stronger than he is. She was always stronger than he was.

Then Dean's there, his hands so warm and solid that Sam wants to cry. The shame of being naked in front of her (in front of Dean) floods him—but Dean's got hold of him and he's dragging Sam bodily out of the cold fire, his voice rough, his grip tight. "All right, all right, I gotcha. Come on, let's get him out of there." Not fire, Sam realizes. Ice. Ice and water so cold it feels like it might freeze his heart.

As soon as the air touches Sam's skin, he groans and tries to curl in on himself. "He's still burning up," Ruby says—only it's not Ruby. It can't be. Ruby's dead.

"Tell me something I don't know." 

Dean sounds pissed. Sam's stomach sinks. "I'm not a vampire, Dean," he says, turning toward Dean's voice, into his rough hold. "I swear."

"He's delirious," the female voice says. Charlie, Sam realizes. It's Charlie. "Maybe we should—" Sam misses part of what she says next, he's shivering so hard, but he gets the word _hospital._

"No doctor's gonna be able to do anything," Dean tells her. 

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. This is all us. Sammy, listen to me." _Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak._ "Listen to me, okay? We're gonna figure this out, but you gotta hang in there for me."

Any other time, Sam would laugh. Does Dean think he doesn't know that? He wouldn't be here if that weren't true. But the fires of Heaven are consuming him from the inside, and he's afraid that soon it won't matter how badly he wants to come through for Dean. 

A clutch of white-hot agony erases thought then, and it's a relief to give himself to the dark.

* * *

The first time it happened, Dean had less than three weeks to live. That was what finally broke Sam, and ruined a lifetime of resisting the inevitable truth he'd known since he was fifteen. He'd known it when Dean came to get him at Stanford. He'd thought about it a thousand times in the past three years, and he was pretty sure Dean thought about it, too. Dean had sold his soul for him. It didn't get more inevitable than that.

"You're so fucking stupid," Sam remembers saying. He might've been drunk—he can't be sure. Dean had dragged them to a bar. Neither of them were sleeping, and they were driving each other crazy waiting to hear from Bobby, who'd been trying to find out anything he could about a demon named Lilith. 

" _I'm_ stupid? Says the guy who wanted to turn us both into zombies." Dean stumbled half a step into Sam as he dug for the motel key. 

On a normal night, Sam would have defended himself. Dean was right. It had been a stupid idea—a crazy idea. Sam freely admitted he wasn't the sanest person in the world these days. But whose fault was that? 

Right then though, exhausted, half-drunk, and so terrified of what was coming that he could barely breathe, it was more than he could take. 

"Hey, hey!" Dean protested when Sam grabbed him and shoved him up against the door. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? I'll tell you what's wrong with me." A bitter, sharp-edged laugh broke out of him. The heat between their bodies made him want to tear the world down and set it aflame. All his life he'd lived with this, and for what? He was going to lose Dean anyway. He choked out, "Same thing that's wrong with you. Only difference is, I have to fucking live with it for the rest of my life. Isn't that right? 'Cause it's my _job_?" Sam didn't even know what he was saying. Dean would put him on his ass any second and save them both from the reckless trajectory of his despair, and it wouldn't matter. 

Dean didn't, though. His eyes went wide, too bright in the moonlight. "Sammy," he said. Just that. Sam's heart kicked hard.

"So fucking stupid," Sam said, and kissed him, all his desperation and blind need rushing up inside him, finding its answer in the sound Dean made and in the sudden, fierce clutch of his brother's hands.

Later, Sam thought it was simple gravity. They'd been spinning around each other's axes so long, all it took was one little push for them to crash into each other. At the time, all he knew was that he was drowning, and he'd pull Dean down with him before he'd let go.

* * *

"Dean?"

"Hey, you're awake. Here. Drink." A cup presses to his mouth and cool liquid washes against his dry lips. He struggles to lift his head. Then a rough hand cups his neck and he's able to get some down. It hurts to swallow, but tastes so good he doesn't stop. "Take it easy," Dean says. "I gotcha."

Sam remembers slipping in and out of delirium, hearing Dean and Charlie talking about a _walking nuclear bomb._ About Sam's blood, and purification, and _if we could release that energy somehow—_

Now Sam feels only his own exhaustion: profound, but human, and ordinary. He knows something's wrong. All that energy inside of him. He remembers how it felt—like it could swallow the earth.

He lets his head sink to the pillow and looks at his brother. He doesn't want to know, but he needs to. "What'd you do?" His voice is sandpaper-rough, like he's been screaming.

"What I had to," Dean says simply.

Sam swallows. "Dean, I can't. I can't let more people die because of me."

"Nobody's dyin', okay? No more than usual."

Sam knows that can't be the whole truth. There'll be a cost. There's always a cost. The weight of the choice he's made rests in his gut, leaden and sick. He'd fought off Abaddon, made it to the final step, and then Dean said _I'm begging you_ and Sam caved like a house of cards. Now the angels have fallen and Crowley's in the wind. Abaddon, too, and Hell wide open for the taking. He's made a mess of everything, like always.

Dean's hand comes to rest on his forehead, and despite himself Sam makes a sound that he can't suppress. Dean's right there, half-sitting on the edge of Sam's bed. Sam can feel the solid heat of him, the gentleness of his hands. His voice rumbles close when he says, "It's okay, Sammy. We'll figure it out." 

Sam wraps one hand in Dean's shirt. He wants to believe him. He wants it so bad that he closes his eyes and breathes Dean in, and for a little while, he does.

* * *

"Okay, listen. It's easy, okay? But first you gotta float."

"I can't!"

"Yes, you can."

"I sink too fast." Sam knows he sounds like a baby, but he can't help it. Why won't Dean believe him?

"Do you trust me?"

At that, Sam stops crying. He sniffs. The smell of chlorine burns his throat. "Yes."

"Come here. Turn around." Dean pulls him in close, and he feels safer with Dean right there. Sam turns so his back is to Dean. He has to stand on his toes even in the shallow end.

"Now, lay back."

Sam bites his tongue. It's not like he's scared, exactly. He just hates this. But he's used to doing what Dean says, and he doesn't want Dean to call him a wuss. Plus, Dad is watching. Maybe if Sam gets this right, things won't be so bad between Dean and him.

Dean's hands are steady under his shoulders. "That's it. I got you. Close your eyes."

Sam tries, but he sinks again. "See?" He tries to thrash upright, but Dean holds him still.

"Come on, Sammy," he says. "You can do this. All you gotta do is lay back and kick your feet. Let me do the rest."

This time, it works. Sam squeezes his eyes shut—he's scared to look. But it's working. Dean keeps him steady, and all at once, he relaxes, and he's floating for real. The sun is setting behind his closed eyelids, cool water lapping at his ears.

"Don't let go," he says, the fear beginning to fade, a fragile hope welling in its place. "Don't let go, Dean."

Dean's voice is right by his ear when he says, "I won't."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt, "teaching someone how to drive (or swim)." There was originally more to Kevin's story, here, and more about how Dean and Charlie worked their mojo on Sam, but sadly it was cut to make the word count. May edit later... then again, more likely it will end up in a different story. :)


End file.
